Making It Last - A Novella (Camelot Series) (7 page)

“Indeed.”

She sipped at hers. It tasted like licorice and ass.

She’d only ordered it because she remembered reading an article once that said absinthe wasn’t available in the United States. Some vague danger in the way it was produced that alarmed only Americans. She liked the idea of drinking such a forbidden, evil substance. She liked how ugly it was, how smoky and green.

“I’m Steve,” he said, and stuck out his hand.

She smiled.

She didn’t mean to. It just happened.

Steve
.

He was playing. He’d flown here for her—it must have been for her—and now he was pretending to be some guy she didn’t know. A Steve.

It was cute.

She’d never been able to resist Tony being cute.

“Jennifer.”

She shook his hand. No wedding ring.

“Nice to meet you, Jennifer.”

“That remains to be seen, Steve.”

That made
him
smile, and a prickling awareness slid over the exposed skin of her back. For the first moment since her eyes had landed on Tony she saw him as a stranger might. Flight-weary, tired around the eyes, but
intense
, even as he leaned casually against the bar and crossed one leg in front of the other.

Her eyes slid down him. His jeans lovingly cupped his crotch, and when she looked back up he gave her a wink, and her face heated.

He was sexy.

A sexy stranger.

Cute.

“Remains to be seen, huh?” he asked.

Amber twirled her glass, watching the fog circle inside it. “Remains to be seen,” she repeated. Because so much did.

“I figure I’ve got about ten minutes.”

“Before what?”

“Ten minutes to drink this while you drink that.” He nodded toward her hand. “And then we’ll either grab a table and get to know each other better, or you’ll send me packing like you did that other guy.”

“That sounds about right.”

“Want me to cut to the chase?”

She studied his face.

Handsome guy, Steve.

“No,” she said. “No, I think ten minutes leaves you plenty of time to beat around the bush first.”

Tony sipped his drink. Grimaced. “Notice how I just declined to make a bush joke.”

“I did notice, but then you ruined it by mentioning it.”

“See, the thing is, it’s not really my forte.”

“What isn’t?”

“Being indirect.”

She glanced at him sideways, accidentally smiling again before dragging her gaze away to the liquor bottles lined up behind the bar.

No, he wasn’t indirect. He was one of the most direct people she’d ever met.

If she dropped the act and asked him why he was here, he would tell her, and … and then she would know. She’d have to figure out what to do about it.

There was a reason that she cried in the shower or sitting on the toilet, locked in the bathroom, even when no one was home.

She wasn’t ready to have that conversation.

She was afraid that once they had it, all her options would be laid out on the ground in
front of her, and she’d have to start making choices that broke her heart. Or he would.

“I guess you’ll have to work on that,” she said. “If you want to be sitting with me at a table in ten minutes.”

“You don’t like direct men?”

She inhaled and drank some of her vile drink. Looked over at him. “It’s not that, exactly, Steve. It’s just—you’re dying to tell me what you want from me. What you saw from the other side of the room that made up your mind to come over here and buy me a drink. You have this story you want to tell me, and you think it’s going to get you something. But from my perspective …”

She trailed off, looking at his forearm on the bar. Tony’s forearm.

“From your perspective?”

“I didn’t come to this bar to give anybody anything.”

“Why’d you come?”

“I thought it might be more fun than the room.”

“Is it?”

She looked at his upper arm now, his shoulder. His shorn hair, black and gray mixed together.

Tony.

Not Tony. Steve.

“It’s looking up,” she said.

“You know what I’m thinking now?”

“Yes. You’re thinking if you show me a good time at the bar, maybe I’ll let you show me an even better time in the room.”

He put his hand to his chest, eyes wide with mock amazement. “How did you
know
that?”

She met his eyes, and she smiled.

Because he was making it so easy for her. She could be Jennifer with this man. She could say what she liked. Flirt with a hot guy at a bar. Feel pretty. Feel
seen
.

She could be Jennifer if he would be Steve.

“Jennifer knows many things,” she said.

“I’m not supposed to say that I want to find out what Jennifer knows, right?”

“Right.”

“I’m supposed to say something smooth, like, ‘You’re an intriguing woman, Jennifer.’ ”

“If that’s your idea of smooth.”

He picked up his terrible drink and knocked half of it back. “Best I can do. ‘You’re an intriguing woman, Jennifer.’ ”

“Thank you. You’re doing a lovely job of pretending to be humble.”

“You don’t think I’m humble?”

“I don’t think you have a humble bone in your body.”

A straight face. A slow smirk. “Look at me, not making any ‘bone’ jokes.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re a simple man, aren’t you, Steve?”

“Now you want me to say something like, ‘All a man needs to know how to do is work, fuck, and grill a decent steak.’ ”

“I do?”

“You do. Then you can shoot me down, and you won’t have to sit at a table with me.” He pointed at her, eyebrows raised. “The whole prospect of the table thing fills you with panic.”

“Sorry, why am I panicking?”

“The footsie,” he said. “You can’t handle the footsie.”

She looked at their feet. Closer together than she’d realized—they’d been edging nearer as they talked.

Or, at least, she had. His bag was in the same place where he’d set it when he walked over, right next to his legs.

It wasn’t smart, letting herself play with him this way. It only set her up for the crash when playtime ended and they had to go home and pick up their problems all over again.

But it was so enticing, talking to this man who was Tony-but-not-Tony. This man who was everything she loved about her husband and none of the baggage that came with him.

Stripped of his husbandness, and her without her wifeness. So much more fun.

“I have to admit, I’m not sure I want those clodhoppers anywhere near my feet.”

“Nah, you’re misunderstanding. You’re not afraid I’m going to step on you. You’re afraid of what
you’ll
do once you get me underneath a table.”

“Oh, I see,” she said with dawning understanding. “I’m terrified that my feet will be magnetically attracted to your …” She raised a skeptical eyebrow at his crotch.

“My humble bone,” he supplied helpfully.

Amber laughed, and he grinned, and oh, Steve had a smile on him. A good sense of humor, a winning grin, nice hair, nice hands, nice arms.

She liked him. Liked the way he looked at her, the way he talked to her.

As if she was really here, and so was he, and he was listening. He was
interested
.

“You might be right,” she admitted. “It’s kind of a scary prospect.”

“Don’t be scared, baby,” he said with an exaggerated leer. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about what happens if these shoes get too close to your humble bone.”

He peeked at the pointed toes of her heels and winced. “You’re supposed to take the shoes off when you play footsie.”

She made her eyes round. “Oh? Dag. I’ve been doing it all wrong.”

“Left a trail of emasculated men in your wake, have you?”

“And I never could figure out why they didn’t call me after.”

Shaking his head, smiling, he polished off his drink. “I don’t believe that.”

“What, that my conquests never call?” She propped her elbow on the bar and rested her head in her hand, openly flirtatious.

When had they last bothered to flirt? When had her eyes traveled over this man’s chest, his shoulders, his face, and thought something other than,
I need to get the clippers out this weekend and give them all haircuts
or
That undershirt’s getting ratty. Add that to the Target list?

He nodded toward her wrist. “Looks to me like you give them a reason not to call.”

Confused, she lifted her head and glanced at where he was looking. “What’s that?”

“Your husband.”

Oh. The ring.

She twisted it off and tucked it in her purse.

“Oops,” she said.

A wry grin. “Yeah. Oops.”

“Was that a game-changer, Steve?”

He met her eyes. “You want it to be?”

“No.”

No, she didn’t want the game to change. She wanted to keep going. See where they ended up.

She wanted this adventure, this hope, whether it was the smart thing or not.

Steve tapped the bar with one finger. Looked at her again. “Then I guess the question is whether your husband would kick my ass if he found out.”

“He’s not here.”

“Not here, like not in the bar, or not here, like—”

“Like not on this island.”

“Why not?”

“He had to work.”

A searching pause as he looked into her eyes, and she wanted to take it back. The words had burbled up, unplanned.

She did have a husband. He was back in Ohio, working. And she didn’t want to think about him right now—his work, what it meant, what it cost her. She only wanted to be with
this
man.

“His mistake,” he said quietly.

Amber let herself drift a step closer. Close enough that her arm brushed his, and she thought about his hand on the bar. If he lifted it and dropped it to her hip, how heavy it would feel there. How the humidity meant that her skin would feel cold, bereft when he took it away.

“What brings you to Jamaica, Steve?”

“A wedding.”

“Not yours, I hope.”

“My brother’s.”

“Oh, brother wedding. That’s treacherous. Do you like the bride?”

“She’s great. But to be honest, she could be a total bitch and I’d still be happy to see him married.”

“Why, is he horribly ugly?”

He shook his head. “Nah, just horribly messed up.”

God. He was talking about Patrick.

No. No Patrick.

Jennifer didn’t want to think about Patrick or his suffering.

So what are you good for, Steve?

That was what she should say. Then he would reply with an innuendo-filled joke, and
they’d be right back on track. They would get that table. Drink some more. She would take him back to the room.

That was what Tony wanted, wasn’t it? That was what he was looking for: some way to invite her to take that step with him. To give them a chance to start over so they could prove they had something between them, some real and important blaze of attraction that would exist even if they were Steve and Jennifer or Tom and Amanda or Adam and Colette.

If you want me, win me over
, she thought.

Make me believe in you. In us
.

Make me believe in
myself.

“Marriage isn’t for everybody,” she said.

Which made Jennifer sound like the sort of woman who was pissed off at her neglectful husband, seeking revenge sex.

He leaned in. “If I were an indirect sort of man,” he said quietly, running one finger up her forearm. “If I were a
subtle
man.” His mouth was so close to hers, she could feel his breath.

“If you were the kind of man who can do more than work and fuck and cook a steak?”

“Right. If I were one of those kind of guys, what would I say next?”

“That depends.”

“What does it depend on?”

“Your intentions.”

He turned his eyes on her again, dark and knowing. “What if I told you my intention was to get you out of that dress as soon as I could manage it?”

Perfect
.

Perfect question, perfect tone of voice, perfect heat in his eyes, and a perfectly delightful shiver down her perfectly bare back.

“Then I would be glad I took off my ring.”

He slid his hand down her spine, parking it on the same spot Jared had tried to occupy.

It felt as good as she’d hoped. Heavy, warm, just the right trigger to transform her excitement into arousal. Weight in her breasts. Heat between her legs.

Amber wanted to bask in it, but she stepped away. “You’re going to have to woo me some more first, Steve.”

That earned her a chagrined smile. “At least the drinks are free.”

“We already paid for them,” she corrected. Because the resort was all-inclusive. The illusion of free everything, when in fact you’d coughed up all the money in advance.

“How about I get you another drink, and then we grab that table?” Steve asked. “Would that suit you?”

Jennifer approved. She located an empty alcove with a view of the water and picked up her drink, ready to make her way over. “See if you can get a bottle of wine instead.”

“Red?”

Red was what Amber liked.

“White,” she said, and sauntered to the table.

* * *

Tony poured out chardonnay, watching moisture condense on the bowl of each glass.

He poured generously, even though he hated chardonnay.

Amber hated it, too.

But Jennifer wanted white wine, and Steve wanted to get lucky, so there were rituals to perform. He added another splash to each glass.

“Thanks,” she said, accepting hers. “So what do you do for a living, Steve?”

“I’m a builder,” he said, and then wished he’d come up with a lie.

He really wasn’t any good at this. First he’d dragged Patrick into it, and now he told her his real job. Why not just announce he was the father of three orphaned boys, looking for a nice lady to scrub his linoleum?

Nice escapist fantasy, asshole. She’ll be playing footsie with you in no time
.

“What do you build?”

This, at least, he could manage not to fuck up. “Houses.”

“What sort of houses?”

“Good ones.”